


Lethallin

by shobogan



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dragon Age Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shobogan/pseuds/shobogan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jay is a city elf. Drake is a weird noble. It's an unlikely friendship, but it works.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethallin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for tumblr user Cleromancy's birthday! Ages ago. I figured I may as well throw it up here.

Sometimes Jay hates being an elf.

He never says it, of course; he knows his mother’s face would crumple. (His father was killed years back, caught out of the alienage after night fell. Jay resents him for it, sometimes.) He wears his pride on his tattered sleeves, as if it could cleanse his bitterness.

He’s gotten in a few scrapes, that way; refusing to be ashamed, refusing to bow his head and accept his place. He tries not to – _Mamae_ gets sick with worry, fusses over every little cut and scrape. (He’s been learning healing arts from the battered old clinic down the way; better he fix it himself, if it happens, before she ever sees.)

He knows it could be worse – he could be in Orlais, and no better than a slave.

Or he could be free, truly, as elves are in whispers and dreams.

Today has been peaceful, so far. He’s sitting cross-legged, back pressed against the _vhenadahl_. The ancient bark scratches his back through worn cloth, but he doesn’t mind.

His eyes are closed, but his ears prick at soft footfalls; he’s always been good at that. (Big ears, his father would say, must have got them from your grandmother.)

He looks up only when the steps fade, a lazy smile curling his lips. “Drake.”

It’s not a fitting nickname, at first glance; the boy is pale and slight, swimming in his fancy silk. Hunched shoulders make him look smaller still.

It was meant as a joke, but Jay has since seen the fire in his eyes.

Drake always smiles like he hasn’t had much practice at it, and somehow it’s endearing. “Would you mind some company?”

Once, Jay would have rebuked him with a hard glare and a low scoff, maybe a barb about ruining his nice tunic. Today, he pats the grass beside him, shifting slightly to make room. Drake nods his thanks, and settles down beside him.

“It’s called _vhenadahl_ , yes?”

“Yeah.” Drake knows, of course. All the boy does is learn things, as far as Jay can tell.

But he wants to _listen_ , so Jay is happy to talk.

“In our ancient tongue, it means tree of the people. Our spirits are tied to it; as long as it lives, so will we.” It’s a comfort, some days. On others, it feels like a trap. “We carried the seeds with us from our own lands, when we were ageless and strong.” That, that sounds like a fairy tale.

But Drake doesn’t look sceptical, when Jay tuns his head. No – he looks sad.

“Arlathan.”

“What?” Jay barely caught it, low and soft as it was. Drake’s smile is stranger still, this time, thin and brittle.

“Arlathan.” The word is stronger, now, rolling off his tongue like a precious secret. “ _This place I love_. It was the centre of – your homeland, once.”

A low snort. “Of course _you_ know.” Of course the humans have scrolls and records, after their legends were stolen from them.

He doesn’t resent Drake as much, now, not often. When the boy first came, bright eyes darting beneath his ridiculous cowl – well, Jay expected the worst, and braced himself for it. He straightened his shoulders, crossed his arms, scowled his hardest. Humans only came to cause trouble.

Except the boy – younger than him, he found out later - didn’t rise to his bluster. He ducked his head, and murmured an apology. _Sorry for bothering you_.

Jay was too stunned to stay hostile.

They talked, for a time. The boy refused to give his name, so Jay gave him one. He mocked the boy relentlessly, over the next few months, but with less and less rancour.

Jay never expected the _shem_ to live up to his name, but when the nobles came round in their drunken gall, Drake was there in the crowded streets.

Jay was already neck deep in it, of course. His mother taught him to respect women, after all; he could only question if theirs did the same. He expected to get his ribs cracked again, for standing his ground; he barely noticed Drake, small and quiet, step up beside him.

His voice range out cold and sharp, chastising the lords like naughty pups. He spoke of respect, as well – for the first time, a human said Denerim’s elves deserved it, and meant every word. He dismissed the men with sharp disdain and a flick of his hand, and they left shame-faced.

As soon as they were gone, he hunched in on himself again, looking grimly sheepish.

All Jay could do, really, was clap him on the back and drag him to the tavern. (It’s not much of a tavern, really – there’s barely room for a dozen, and it tilts a bit, and the wood is starting to rot – but the moonshine burns all the way down your chest, and sometimes they even have brandy.)

Since then – they’re not friends, exactly. Their lives are too different, Jay thinks, to truly connect. But they can talk for hours, and he doesn’t tense when their shoulders bump or their hands brush.

His mother found them, once, lounging in the murky midday sun and gnawing on salt chews. All she did was squeeze their shoulders and leave them cups of steaming tea.

Drake’s gaze was wistful, as she left, almost desperate. It was the first time Jay realised that maybe he had something the noble boy didn’t. (And there’s no doubt, now, that he’s a noble.)

“I can get them for you.” Drake has been speaking, and only now do his words drag Jay out of his memories.

“Hm?”

Drake rolls his eyes. It’s only recently, that he’s shown his annoyance – as if he thinks he’s allowed, now. Jay doesn’t mind; it’s kind of cute.

“There’s a book, that I have. There’s – it isn’t much.” There’s that grief again; for lost history, probably, lost knowledge.

After a moment, Jay nods. “Smuggle it in some time.” There’s no law against sharing with elves, against just giving them something, but only because they never thought anyone would bother. It’s still a risk, a play of his hand.

But he’ll do it anyway.

It’s something Jay’s never figured out. Does it make him feel better about himself, slumming with them? Being kind when he doesn’t have to?

It lingers in the back of his mind long after Drake leaves – renewed curiosity and resentment. It’s a few days until he returns, a cloth-bound tomb in his hands.

Drake won’t show it to him outside; they scurry into Jay’s house (hovel, but it’s home) like nervous rats. Then he just _stands_ there, in the corner of Jay’s room, gnawing at his lips.

“Well?” The question is sharper than it ought to be, because Jay found himself staring at Drake’s mouth.

Drake takes a breath, slow and deep, before handing over the book. Jay grabs it with his usual earnest roughness, and he can see Drake stifle a wince.

His brow furrows as he opens the tome. He expected the common tongue; the dwarves’ language, once, before humans used it to stamp out so many others. “What language is this?”

“Elvish.”

Jay almost drops the book as his head jerks up. Drake’s hands are lingering at his temples.

“How the - ”

He has to yank at the cowl a few times before it comes off. Black hair, mused and tangled, spills out of it.

His ears, damp and red, taper into delicate points above the mess.

“ _Aneth Ara, Jarian_.”

Jay just stares, long enough for Drake to start shifting his feet and fiddling with his cowl.

“I’m elf-blooded.”

“Andraste’s flaming ass you are! They’re human!” As good as, anyway.

There’s that damn smile again. “Not all of them, apparently.”

Jay plops down on his worn cushions, and realises his heart is pounding in his ears.

“All this time - ”

“I’m sorry.” Drake sounds it, too, and – dammit, it’s hard to stay mad, but he’s trying.

“So what’s your real name, then?”

His shoulders slump, and he looks as small as he did when Jay first met him. “I don’t know. Not really. My father, my _real_ father – he left a long time ago.”

Drake leans against the wobbly door, folding his arms around himself. “He was Dalish. I don’t know how it happened, mother never talks about it.” A forlorn little shrug. “He left me with that.” He gestures at the book, sitting now in Jay’s lap. “I thought – one day I might be able to share it. But I don’t know where the Dalish are, if they even exist any more.”

All Jay can hear, for a moment, is his own heart.

Then he grins, that dagger sharp smile that had _Mamae_ calling him _Da’mi_.

“So let’s find them.”


End file.
